


Cross-Contamination

by basilandoranges



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, there’s Penny/Agatha if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 04:29:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28576032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basilandoranges/pseuds/basilandoranges
Summary: Simon doesn’t care for proper toast-preparing techniques. Baz does. Jam fights ensue.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 1
Kudos: 45





	Cross-Contamination

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lincyclopedia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lincyclopedia/gifts).



> This is my first fic for the fandom. Kinda short but I hope y’all enjoy

SIMON

Baz doesn’t get to bed until late. It’s almost three in the morning, and I’m about to go to the sitting room to forcibly drag him away from his laptop and books, when I see the light turn off in the hallway and hear quiet footsteps approaching. He makes quick work of getting ready for bed, though I would’ve just flopped onto the mattress and been out like a light, but Merlin forbid Baz sleeps without having thoroughly cleaned his mouth and face. When he finally gets to bed, I curl my arm around his waist and pull him to me. “Goodnight, love,” I say. “Goodnight, Simon.” He murmurs back. 

It’s still dark out when I wake up. It’s not actually very early, since it’s January and it’s dark out until eight in the morning, but Baz will still be asleep for hours more at least. He’s been staying up until three for the last week, even though his midterms aren’t for another two weeks. I know Agatha said she’s been having trouble dragging Pen away from her studies, too. I press a soft kiss to Baz’s cheek, which is warmer than usual after having my cheek pressed against it all night. He stirs, but doesn’t wake. I wander off to the kitchen and put on the kettle. I may as well start breakfast, I think as I pull out the ingredients for scones. They aren’t the same as Cook Pritchard’s back at Watford, but the recipe I’ve been working on comes close. I set about making scones and mixing ingredients, taking my time so that the scones will still be warm for breakfast when Baz gets up. 

BAZ

When I wake up, the bed is empty, the window is open and the curtains are shut. I slept well tonight. I have been, even though I’ve been going to sleep late for a few days now. I can hear Simon bumbling about in the kitchen, and I can smell the fresh scones he no doubt got up early to make. I smile. Back at Watford, I never let myself imagine a future where I would wake up to eat breakfast with Simon Snow in our flat in London, and even after there was a time when I didn’t think I would be able to keep him, but here I am. Waking up to eat breakfast with Simon Snow. Crowley, I’m living a charmed life. 

I stretch and climb out of bed, then pick up one of Simon’s jumpers off of his desk chair and pull it on over my pajama top, since it’s still fucking freezing in here because Snow left the window open even though it’s January. I cross the room and slam the window shut before trailing off to the kitchen to see my fiancé. I still have topics to study for later, because even though we’re in grad school instead of Watford now, I’m certainly not going to let Penelope Bunce finish the term with higher marks on her midterms than me. I allow myself this, though. To take a morning to eat breakfast with Simon and relax before I return to my studies. I’ve been better about that now, too. Taking breaks. Simon would say otherwise given my sleep schedule, but it’s certainly progress. 

I’m in a lovely mood until I walk into the kitchen and stop dead in my tracks. “Simon, what the fuck are you doing?” I ask, incredulous. He smiles up at me, then gestures vaguely to the slice of bread in front of him. “Toast,” is the explanation he offers, despite the fact that he’s got at least a dozen scones fresh out of the oven. I blink slowly. “I can see that, love. I meant, why do you have six different sorts of spreads out, and—“ I pause, noticing something far worse. “—and why the fuck are you using the same knife for all of them, Snow?” I’m only sort of kidding. He knows I’m not genuinely angry, though it is truly a crime against humanity to be getting the butter mixed in with the marmalade, not that he would care. 

He looks down, confused. The lovely oaf. When he understands my (justified!) annoyance, he rolls his eyes. “Am not gonna get six different knives filthy, am I?” He proceeds to stick a Nutella-covered knife into the strawberry jam. “Simon, no! You’ve gotten them all mixed together!” Now I’m whinging. I don’t care right now, not when he’s wrecking the jams. “It’s called cross-contamination, Snow. You work in a bakery, you should know this,” 

“That’s at work. It doesn’t matter here,” he says.

“It certainly does, Snow. Give it here,” I reach for the knife. He jerks back, narrowing his eyes at me. He just his chin out, ready to defend his barbaric practices. 

“No,” he replies, holding it out of my reach. I growl. Living with Snow for so long has rubbed off on me. (In more ways than one). I lunge, but he sees it coming. He’s laughing at me now, and I’m trying to keep my expression annoyed, but it’s hard with the smile trying to force its way onto my face. 

“Give. It. Here.” I snarl.

“Not. A. Chance.” He grins. Then, he does something unforgivable. He dips the knife into the marmalade, then flings the spread at me. In lands with a squelch in my hair. 

I gape at him. He looks just a little afraid. He should be, I think. 

I grab the jar of blueberry jam, stick my finger it in (how the mighty fall) and swipe it across his face. Things only get worse from here. We keep at it until it eventually devolves into us snogging enthusiastically on the floor of the kitchen. Simon’s laughing into my mouth, and his sticky hand in my hair is only making it worse, but it’s wonderful. We’re each covered in spreads, I’ve got strawberry jam in places strawberry jam should not be, and I’ve made certain Snow does too. 

I pull away from the kiss and rest my (jam-covered) forehead against his. “Look what you’ve done, Snow. The whole bloody kitchen’s a mess—and my hair!—all thanks to you,” he grins at me and pecks me nose. “Sorry, love,” the bastard doesn’t sound sorry at all. I roll my eyes at him. “Yes, well. I suppose I can find it in me to forgive you,” he gives me his sunniest smile and reaches for my mouth again, but I lean away. “But I’m choosing the film we watch tonight.” 

He groans. “Do we have to watch Notting Hill again?” 

I shrug (I really do spend too much time around Simon, honestly) (though, truly, do I ever spend enough time with him?).

“I’m not the one who started a jam-war,” I say accusingly. “You totally are,” he grumbles, but I kiss him again and he shuts up. I do love doing that. 

He pulls away from me and stands before helping me up as well. 

“Go wash up, love, I’ll warm up the scones,” he pushes me gently towards the hallway, and I peck him on the cheek and shoot him a smile before I head off to the washroom. 

Charmed life, indeed.


End file.
